


The Jumper

by themoonandmargot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bois Bein' Cute, Confessions, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Midnight Writes, literally it was midnight to four am each time i worked on this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 15:43:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9498854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themoonandmargot/pseuds/themoonandmargot
Summary: Sherlock simply never wears jumpers. After all these years, John pushes for a change in scenery.





	1. The Present

**Author's Note:**

> I think I came up with this idea yesterday, and here I am at 2 a.m., sitting at my laptop, while typing away part one of a fic that I just wrote in my journal. I'm planning to post a second part to this eventually, but that's if I don't lose motivation. Anyway, here goes!

"What's this?"  
  
John looks up from the newspaper and titters. Sherlock has finally leaned away from his microscope to notice the plain, brown gift bag that John left beside him. "Why, it's a present, Sherlock," John replies.  
  
"Obviously. Present for what?" Sherlock asks, already digging through the tissue paper.  
  
"Your birthday was a month ago. I can't not give you a present."  
  
"There's no need. I didn't attend your birthday dinner," Sherlock counters, making himself pause and look up from the bag. "Sorry about that, by the way."  
  
John coughs and dismisses, "I'm over it. After all, I know you're not quite the people person."  
  
John's voice diminishes as Sherlock holds up the present in front of him: a wool, caramel-brown jumper. Sherlock isn't frowning, but he's definitely not smiling; rather, he squints at the article of clothing as if another one of his cases is behind it, embedded between the threads of the fabric. John would find the expression on his face amusing, if it weren't his gift Sherlock was holding.  
  
"A jumper," Sherlock proclaims flatly. He sets the clothing back in the bag and sniffs loudly, now aware of how long he's been staring at the present. "Thank you, John. How very... thoughtful of you."  
  
The detective peers back into the microscope and twiddles with its knobs. John snorts. "You hate it, don't you?"  
  
"Mmm, hate is a  _strong_ word, John. However, I must say it's not the most exciting of gifts," Sherlock says without looking away from the microscope. "I'm sure you've kept the receipt, yes? I suggest you return it soon before your refund becomes void."  
  
John steps closer to brush his fingertips against the jumper. "I'm not returning it, Sherlock. I'm not going to let you not have a birthday present," he rejects.  
  
"Well, if you insist, why not that–"  
  
"I am  _not_ getting you an arm off the black market!" John declares.  
  
"I actually asked for a spleen."  
  
"Sherlock," John heaves, and the detective immediately assumes from the tone of John's voice that he's about to be lectured. John picks up the jumper and reasons, "I've never seen you in a jumper, ever. It's all dress shirts and... swishy coats with you. You can't go to Tesco in a dress shirt!"  
  
"I didn't know my Tesco attire bothered you so much," Sherlock notes. By the way John sucks in a large breath of air before releasing it back through his nose, Sherlock senses he's acting like more of an arsehole than John deserves to deal with. Quickly, he adds, "It's fine, I'll just... wear it around the house. Or to bed."  
  
"Yes," John grunts, "that's perfect." He sets down the jumper and stares at Sherlock, preoccupied with work. "Listen, Sherlock, you don't have to like it. Of course I'm not making you like the jumper. But I just... I want you to know that, I dunno, heartfelt gifts like this. You're worthy of them. As much as you get under my skin, and trust me, you do - I still want to give you something that says I care."  
  
There's a second of silence, a moment when Sherlock glances at John from the corner of his eye. John almost thinks Sherlock understands, but then Sherlock mutters, "A spleen still would've been better."  
  
John inhales sharply at this, balling his fists and hissing, "Oh you utter-!" through his teeth. He marches, defeated, towards the staircase that leads to his bedroom. He'll get over it in fifteen minutes, Sherlock knows, but his eyes still slink back to the jumper.  
  
Well, it is a nice jumper. Very warm. Definitely soft. Plus, Sherlock got it because John cares for him, which, if he's honest with himself, should be reason enough for him to wear it.  
  
_Damnit._ Perhaps Sherlock will have to make room in his closet for one more item, after all.


	2. First Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally arrived: an update! Sorry it took so long for me to continue this, but I didn't want to rush through this for the sake of my writing (and my sanity). I hope you enjoy reading and please leave a comment!

The sun hangs low in the sky when John deletes a sentence he's rewritten twenty-three times already. A new post should have been up on his blog hours ago, especially with the abundance of time he's had to himself this morning. Still, the cursor blinks sluggishly before him. From the hallway comes a distraction in the form of bare feet slapping against the floor. "Good morning, Sherlock," John greets before correcting himself. "Well, afternoon. Is there a reason why you're up so late today?"  
  
The footsteps pause in the kitchen, where John suspects Sherlock is eyeing his slightly burnt toast. "I was busy thinking," the detective replies.  
  
John grins, though Sherlock can't see it, not with John facing away. "You do little else," he teases. He resumes typing, or at least he tries to. He's sat himself in front of the windows so that the sights of Baker Street below will inspire him. John would say that the view has only distracted him thus far, if the blank screen before him isn't proof enough. It doesn't help now that Sherlock is fidgeting with every possible bottle and beaker in the kitchen.  
  
Eventually, he hears Sherlock trudge his way to the wooden table in the living room where John sits. John doesn't bother glancing at him. _See, Sherlock, I'm being productive!_ his hands say against his keyboard, making up for the words he couldn't think of earlier. Sherlock ought to get the message, but he still coughs and asks, "Writing again?"  
  
"Erm, yeah," John answers hesitantly. "Don't ask me what about, because I haven't a clue yet." John makes his voice breathier in saying this, like he's laughing at his own chronic writer's block. Sherlock doesn't quite get the joke.  
  
"Oh, really?" he mutters, not a semblance of interest in his voice. Time ticks by as John clacks on a few keys, then hits backspace on it all. Quiet and unmoving, Sherlock stands to his side.  
  
John should be used to it by now, having Sherlock stare him down. Sometimes it's all Sherlock does for hours on end—examine his every move, test himself on every little detail about John just because he can. This time John finds it unnerving, and he considers asking Sherlock to kindly bugger off, until Mrs. Hudson strolls into the living room and squeals, "Oh, Sherlock, you look adorable!"  
  
 _Adorable?_ John sputters internally. Not exactly a word he'd use to describe Sherlock Holmes... not often, at least. He finally looks at Sherlock and gives him a thorough inspection. To his surprise, Sherlock's wearing a jumper -  _the_ jumper, woolen glory and all. Sherlock stares back at John, and behind his wide eyes John almost senses a hint of fear.  
  
"I'm wearing your gift," Sherlock says, licking his lips.  
  
"You're wearing my gift," John echos. They both remain frozen while Mrs. Hudson rattles on about how well that shade of brown suits Sherlock's hair. John nods in agreement. "It looks good on you," he comments before clearing his throat and turning back to his laptop.  
  
Sherlock looks at the mirror above the fireplace and flattens the jumper against his stomach. "Does it? I still feel like I've been rummaging through a toddler's wardrobe."  
  
John tosses him a look over his shoulder as Mrs. Hudson scampers to Sherlock. Resting a hand on his shoulder, she assures, "Oh, hush. You needed this! A suit gets a bit tiring on the eyes after a while, hmm?"  
  
This time, John pointedly meets Sherlock's eyes in the mirror, making the detective's shoulders bunch up in response. "There's nothing wrong in wearing a suit!" he spits.  
  
"No, of course not," Mrs. Hudson reasons, "but it earns you quite a few strange looks in Tesco, doesn't it?"  
  
John barely stifles his laughter while Sherlock takes a deep breath. He decides against telling Sherlock _I told you so_ and instead says, "I really am happy you're attempting to use my present, Sherlock. Thank you."  
  
Stunned, Sherlock mouth fall agape. Mrs. Hudson bounces away with a delighted giggle, and John offers a warm, genuine smile at Sherlock until it wards the frowning man back into his bedroom. With that, John looks back at the blinking screen before him and finally, blessedly, writes.


	3. Aftereffects

Nothing is quite the same after that. Sherlock emerges from his bedroom every day wearing the same jumper. Some days, the boys go out for cases—or very occasionally, Tesco—and Sherlock pulls on the jumper like a security blanket. The first time Lestrade sees Sherlock wearing the jumper, he has to rub his eyes to confirm that he's seeing correctly. Now it's the usual, expected, and for some reason the boys neglect to acknowledge it.  
  
They don't acknowledge how Sherlock becomes a moth drawn to John's flame, always looming closer. They don't acknowledge why Sherlock cares so much and so suddenly, even more than usual. They don't acknowledge how a damn article of clothing seems to turn their lives around.  
  
Until one day, Sherlock gets a notification on his phone: "New Blog Post - The Reoccurring Jumper". Sherlock is alone, out on a case, and positively scowling at his phone screen. He feels his face get hot; whatever unspoken rule that he and John had about ignoring the elephant in the room, he knows he should've made it a code of law. That way, it might have saved Sherlock from this embarrassment. Still, he decides to entertain John and tap on the notification.  
  
_January 6 is Sherlock's birthday, I found out. I have yet to determine how old he is, though I doubt it matters since he's probably a vampire.  
  
Either way, I got him a present. Wool jumper, oatmeal-coloured, imported from Cambodia. It's as fancy a jumper can get, but Sherlock didn't care all too much for it. Until...  
  
I told him he looked nice in it. He really  did look nice in it, and I'm not just saying that because he'll probably end up reading this post. But that one compliment must have given him quite the confidence-boost. With each size that jumper shrinks in the wash, Sherlock's ego grows a size bigger. I always thought the coat and scarf made him feel more important than he truly is, but maybe it was just all the attention he gets. And trust me, his current attire gets him a lot of attention.  
  
There's something else that caught my attention. Sherlock didn't have to wear the jumper that often. He didn't have to wear it at all. But he wears it, as if to prove a point, to show that he cares, too.  
  
I think we've grown closer as a result, especially considering everything with Mary and Rosie and Eurus. Life is back to normal, or at least as normal as it can get when you're investigating murder scenes. We have time to lounge around our flat and get each other silly gifts. It's a nice balance between the dullness of life and the numerous serial killers that tend to chase after us.  
  
It wouldn't be without Sherlock Holmes. Wild, daring arsehole that he is. Mysterious, too. Even I have troubles reading him. He's too smart to show emotion. It's a shame he isn't smarter though, or else he might've actually realized that I'm in love with him. Truly and stupidly in love. Always have been. Always too scared and too cautious to admit it. But now I've admitted it, and caution is out the window. I suppose all that's left is fear. Luckily for all of us, they say that fear is but a yield sign for love. I hope that's right.  
  
I wonder if he'll wear the jumper tomorrow._  
  
At this, Sherlock alerts Greg from over his shoulder that he's got an emergency to take care of at Baker Street. "Is this about John?" Greg questions, slightly annoyed that Sherlock is bailing on a case for the umpteenth time.  
  
Sherlock whips around, phone in hand. "Oh, Lestrade. It's always about John," he answers before hailing a cabbie down the street. Greg watches him, defeated, when seconds later his phone rings with the same notification as Sherlock's.  
  
Something clicks, between the seemingly harmless post title and the way Sherlock paces a hole into the concrete. "Sherlock," he calls, earning the attention of the detective. "Good luck with that."  
  
Sherlock nods, a tiny yet grateful smile flickering onto his face. The cab rolls up to Sherlock and he hurries inside. Baker Street can't be close enough. _This is good. Great, even,_ he tells himself, spreading his palms along the soft wool of his jumper. Something rises in his chest, a new feeling Sherlock never thought he would experience. It's nerve-wracking, and mentally exhausting, and all the more exhilarating. Romantic entanglement, John once called it. Love, Sherlock now calls it.  
  
And it wouldn't be without John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if I'm continuing this, but who knows? For now I can only assure you that Sherlock does arrive home and get real cute with John. Not that "getting real cute" is a euphemism for anything. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading this sort-of-ficlet! Please leave a comment. Thank you~


End file.
